


The Fruit of Summer

by Morcalivan



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24842029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcalivan/pseuds/Morcalivan
Summary: Having lost a high stakes game of Gwent against Yennefer, Geralt rides out on a deceptively simple mission: collect a rare ingredient to replenish her spell supplies. Special flowers that only bloom a single day a year, on midsummer's morning. Said to be guarded by a creature that he was to best without killing.Geralt has read about these flowers. Knows that they need to be picked carefully so no part of them touches the skin, and slowly so none of the pollen gets released into the air. Jaskier, on the other hand, knows very little, and listens even less.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 397
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	The Fruit of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang.
> 
> **With a giant thanks to:**  
> 
> 
>   * [Cinnamon Roll 321](https://cinnamonrollbakery.tumblr.com/) for the lovely art that made me squeal and clap like a little kid. [ Check it out here!](https://cinnamonrollbakery.tumblr.com/post/621551323407646721/fic-link-the-fruit-of-summer-fic-author)
>   * [Tsuki](https://tsukiwolf42.tumblr.com/) for betareading and catching my crimes against literature
> 


“Why are we doing this again?” Jaskier asked, for at least the fifth time. 

Geralt took a slow, deep breath to keep hold of his rapidly fraying patience. The sun was at its highest peak in the sky, baking down on his leather armour. Bugs buzzed around them, making Roach’s ears twitch in irritation. He hadn’t answered the previous four inquiries, but it hadn’t stopped Jaskier from incessantly peppering him with them. 

“I promised Yennefer.”

Jasker was silent for a blessed moment, but Geralt knew better than to think it would last. 

“Yennefer. Of course.” The bard’s voice dripped derision. 

Geralt grunted. He was so over the animosity between them. One of these days he was going to lock them together in a small room and stand guard outside, while they either killed or fucked each other. Perhaps then he would finally hear the end of it. 

“Are you courting her, Geralt?”

It was a beautiful summer day. The most magical of days, if Yen were to be believed. Yet none of it registered. Not the rolling green grass, or the clear sky overhead. To Geralt, there was only the heat and the bugs, and the throbbing that had taken root behind his left eye. He lifted one hand from the pommel, folding his thumb and pinky in. A quick push of magic, as easy as swallowing, and the cool protection of Quen slid over his skin. If only it could provide a barrier against more than just the gnats and mosquitoes. Like an annoying bard who noticed everything, for instance. 

He’d often wondered why Jaskier and Yennefer butted heads so often. Did Jaskier have feelings for her, which, unexpressed, has turned to bitterness and resentment? He’d never said anything. At least not within earshot. Geralt had asked Yennefer’s opinion on the matter once. She had given him a look that was both pitying and knowing, and had implied that it was most definitely jealousy. But, of her. 

A ridiculous notion, if ever he’d heard one. He’d watched Jaskier reel in prospect after prospect over the years, and his taste tended towards those who were soft and smelled good. Even when he took the occasional man to bed, it was little Lordlings most of the time. Powdered and primped, and nearly as gifted with their mouths as Jaskier himself. Geralt was...none of those things. 

There had been times, during the first year or two of their travels together, when he’d found Jaskier’s gaze hot and hungry on him, but it had always been after a contract was completed, when the scent of adrenaline wafted off Jaskier’s skin, smelling strangely like cinnamon. Geralt had quickly put an end to it, of course; he couldn’t let the bard traipse through the woods smelling like dinner. That had been many years before, and Jaskier had not shown much interest since. 

“No,” he grumbled, mood still dark despite the lack of insects bothering him. “I am not courting Yen.”

Jaskier was behind him, out of view, but Geralt could practically feel him rolling his eyes in disbelief. And yeah, fine, his thing with Yen had been very on-again, off-again, but they had agreed to it being off for good. Djinn magic be damned. That, unfortunately, did not erase the debt he had racked up against her in one drunken Gwent game, in which she had most definitely been cheating. 

“You gave up a contract to come pick flowers.” 

“Yes.” 

“Why does she even need them?” Jaskier whined. “Sorceresses are magic, they don’t need grasses and flowers. I know this because she’s told you that a number of times before. In a very condescending fashion, I might add. Have you noticed?” 

Geralt gritted his teeth. He should have left Jaskier at the inn they’d spent the night at. Could have just ridden out before dawn and kept on going. Ride until he stumbled onto peace. Wherever that may be. 

He snorted in self-deprecating amusement. Who was he kidding? He’d not been able to leave Jaskier behind for years. Had never been able to, truth be told. For as annoying as he was, there was also something about his easy smiles and wide, trusting eyes that made Geralt feel less of the monster everyone thought him to be. He would never admit it out loud, but life on The Path had become a sight easier with the wild yarns Jaskier spun in the taverns. Been a couple of months since the last time someone threw produce at him. 

That didn’t mean spending long hours in Jaskier’s company was easy. Not even on the days he wasn’t assaulting Geralt’s ears with songs about things that never happened. 

“It’s for a potion. Magic so high in demand that it’s easier to mass-produce a drinkable version than to cast individual enchantments for everyone,” he found himself answering, even though he had every intention of saying nothing. “The flower is very rare; it only blooms for a single day each year. That day being today.” 

Cloth rustled, followed by the gentle thump of wood as Jaskier pulled out his lute. Then slow, clumsily strummed notes disturbed their not so silent trek. Not playing any song in particular, just Jaskier getting bored with the walk and looking for something to do with his hands. Geralt wanted to tell him to be quiet, that there were things lurking in the nearby woods, but anything with ears would have heard them already. 

“What kind of potion?”

Geralt sighed and closed his eyes. Roach’s rolling gait continued without his input. She never needed much. “I didn’t ask.” 

“Bollocks.”

He could probably have fulfilled his promise and been back at the inn with a hot bowl of pottage in the time it took them to get to where they were going, had he left Jaskier behind. Geralt had no doubt the bard would have found some women’s skirts under which to occupy himself. He rubbed at his chest, where a tight feeling had started to develop over the last couple of months, whenever he thought of Jaskier’s exploits. 

“Geralt…” 

He rubbed a little harder for good measure. “A love potion. Some of her clients need extra help.”

“Is it another orgy?” Jaskier asked with delight. “Are we invited?”

Really should have left him at the inn. It vaguely crossed his mind that he could spur Roach on and still ride away. Geralt tilted his face up into the sun and allowed himself a half-smile. Of course, he would have had to turn right on back; he couldn’t leave Jaskier to fend for himself. They didn’t even know what kind of creatures called the place home. Yennefer had been irritatingly vague when she’d explained the necessary safety measures. 

Behind him, footsteps stopped crunching on grass. “What did you say they looked like again?”

Geralt slowed Roach, making it easier for Jaskier to catch up, should he have fallen behind because of bad shoes again. “Blue puffs, about the size of both your fists put together.”

“Like these?”

He twisted in the saddle to glance back. Cold panic rushed through his blood before he could think to regulate it. The edges of his vision went dark, and all he could see was the very distinctive flower in Jaskier’s hand. Roach whinnied unhappily, making him realize he had tightened his knees too much. Not looking away from the flower, he reached down to pat her neck. 

“Jaskier, hold very still.” He slid off Roach, and, as slowly as he could possibly manage, crept closer. 

Thank Melitele that Jaskier had worn the gloves. He had protested when Geralt had given them to him. Complained about bright summer days, pruney fingertips, and the inability to feel his lute strings. He  _ had  _ kept them on, though, and that was the one saving grace. Yennefer had been clear about that part at least: the flowers were not to touch skin. 

“They don’t look that magical to me,” Jaskier babbled on, not paying him much attention. “Are you sure these are the right ones? I thought you said they grew only in specific places. This is right out in the open. They look a bit like someone spilled your potions on some unsuspecting dandelions and they transformed into something new.” 

Geralt reached his side and held his own gloved hand out to take the flower. Jaskier smiled, pure as a child of summer. “Don’t you think, Geralt?” 

And then the idiot leaned in and blew on it, sending sparkling dust straight into Geralt’s face. 

Witcher reflexes weren’t enough to stop him from inhaling a cloud of it. His nose started to tickle and his eyes twitched. Then he sneezed. A smaller, but no less sparkly, cloud blew back onto Jaskier. They looked at each other in wide-eyed horror while fairy dust twinkled and drifted merrily around them. 

Geralt tracked a mote until it settled on the tip of Jaskier’s nose. “Fuck.” 

Jaskier blinked down at the empty stem in his hand, and abruptly dropped it. It was far too late for that. “Geralt…”

“Yeah.” 

“Did you breathe it in?”

“Doesn’t matter. All it needs is skin contact.” 

Jaskier swayed on his feet, and when he lifted his hands, they were trembling. He stared at the glimmering blue sheen covering the black gloves for a long moment, before frantically trying to get them off. 

Yennefer’s warnings had covered what would happen if they fucked up this supposedly easy mission. Geralt could feel it start to creep over him. Bells tinkled somewhere in the vicinity and he contracted his pupils against the increased brightness. 

He didn’t want to look at Jaskier, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away either. Jaskier’s skin had started to glow. A speck of dirt he’d had on his cheek was gone. His eyes were the brightest of blues, like the sky, the ocean, the cursed flower he had picked. His dark hair gleamed, and tendrils of it curled on his forehead, though there was no sweat to be seen. 

That Jaskier was handsome was not a new revelation, of course. Geralt had known. Had seen it charm and disarm countless others. But he himself had never felt quite so breathless in the presence of it before.

Jaskier reached to unbutton his already open doublet, fingers fumbling uselessly in the air. Long, graceful fingers. Made for music and stroking through someone’s hair. Strong too. If they gripped onto a shoulder they could hold on until bruises bloomed. They would look ever so good wrapped around his--

Geralt sucked in a deep lungful of air. It didn’t do anything to quell the fog settling over his mind, only made him inhale more of the spores. They invaded his throat and pierced his blood stream, bringing a languid weight to his limbs even as his heart started to speed up. It had been slow and steady for so long, he had forgotten how much it hurt when it felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. 

“Naughty, naughty,” a female voice whispered in his ear. It was warm like the bedroll he and Jaskier sometimes shared, but somehow also sparkly. He hadn’t heard her creep up, but small hands crept up his back and over his shoulders. The fingers were almost skeletally thin and had an extra joint. They sat on him like pale spiders waiting to strike. 

Jaskier gasped, eyes wide and mouth open. He stared at the thing behind Geralt, seemingly transfixed. He was motionless now but had managed to get his doublet off while Geralt was distracted. 

“Don’t look at her,” he croaked. It was too soft. Too late. “Don’t listen.”

She laughed and flowed around him. Long robes trailed after her, made of some impossibly thin material the colour of clouds before the rain. Up close she appeared as young as Jaskier had been when they’d first met. She was pretty, he supposed. Despite the sharp planes of her face and the impossibly long ears peeking out through her golden hair. 

He should go for his sword. Geralt knew that. Take this fae creature down before she could do the same to them. His arms remained frozen by his sides. Cold started creeping up from his feet, anchoring him to the grass with invisible bonds. 

“You are so lovely,” Jaskier whispered, but he was no longer looking at the woman. His gaze was soft as it settled on Geralt. Full of affection and acceptance. Easy surrender, but no demand. “Always thought so. I’ve wanted you from the moment we met. Sitting there in a corner, trying so hard not to give away how much you crave human contact.”

“Shut up, Jaskier.” He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to know. Couldn’t listen to the lies the magic was pulling from the bard’s mouth. Of course, it had hit Jaskier hard; he was only human, after all. Geralt was the witcher, the one with the legendary resistance to magic. It was his job to be strong, to fight, to get them out of there. 

Jaskier closed his eyes and leaned back, like invisible hands were holding him up. He gasped and shivered. Geralt’s eyes traced the long line of his exposed throat. Watched him lick parted lips.

_ Fight _ , he reminded himself, but he was so tired. It had been so long. 

“You burn so bright.” The words were forcing themselves out of his throat, and Geralt felt powerless to stop them. “Even if I were blind, I would still be able to find you in the dark.”

Would Jaskier believe them to be lies as well? He could only hope so. 

The creature stroked a too long finger over the curve of Jaskier’s cheek. He groaned and leaned into the caress. She laughed in delight. “Oh, how easy you make it. What a marvellous harvest it will be.” 

Geralt strained against the force holding him. “What… what do you want with us?”

Her smile was pointy in all the wrong ways as she stalked back to him, but her hands were gentle as they patted over his chest and then slid down to undo his trousers. “You took from my harvest. Now you will replenish it. I will play you like the instrument your friend carries, and your song will bring life to these fields. Love, dear boy. That’s what I want from you.”

It was Geralt’s turn to gasp and shiver as her touch brought him to full mast. She stroked along the length of him, her skin cool against his. Satisfied, she released him and turned to offer Jaskier the same. 

Heat rushed through Geralt’s body. Sweat broke out along the back of his neck. He bit his lip to avoid moaning. Fuck, whatever magic she had just passed into him felt amazing. If the potion Yennefer brewed from the flower was only half as good, he could see why there was such a high demand for it. 

He let it flow over him for a moment, then shook his head. No. He had to break out of it. Had to save Jaskier before either of them did or said something that could never be taken back. He should… should… 

Magic curled around his legs, feeling like hands sliding down his skin and nudging his knees further apart. 

Jaskier made the most wanton sound Geralt had ever heard. He’d somehow managed to divest himself of all his clothing. When had that happened? Geralt felt like he had been hard and wanting forever, and all the soft, unmarred skin was a feast laid out just for him. 

“I have always wondered,” the woman said. She had moved away from them and approached the small patch of flowers they had come for. Her hand stirred the air lazily above one of the three remaining blooms on the shrub. “You live such short lives. Why waste so much of it on lies and denial?”

Geralt ignored her and called Jaskier’s name again, trying to draw his attention away from whatever was coursing through his veins.

One of Jaskier’s hands crept up over his own shoulder to stroke messily through his hair. The other slid down his flat stomach, it’s destination clear. “Yeah?” he whispered. 

The sound went straight to Geralt’s cock. Legs growing rapidly weaker, he started tugging at buttons and straps, desperate to get the hot leather off him. His eyes never left Jaskier as he fumbled with his armour. While realistically he knew Jaskier was almost as tall as him, some part of him had always thought of his bard as significantly smaller. And he was, somewhat. Thinner across, but with muscles hiding slyly beneath skin. Geralt wanted to taste it all. The muscles, the skin, the pale places that saw very little sun. 

Jaskier moved then, closing the distance between them and unfastening the armour with skilled fingers. The tip of his tongue was just barely visible between his teeth. Geralt was surprised the bard had it in him to still be so focussed on a task that was not crawling into each other’s space. He himself was barely keeping a grasp on his control. How was Jaskier not a drooling puddle on the grass yet?

His hand reached out, trailing light fingertips over Jaskier’s cheek and jaw, thumbing at his parted lips and sliding around into his hair. Geralt could fall into the mesmerizing depths of his eyes. The magic bubbled up in his bloodstream, and for once he couldn’t lie to himself. He hated the bard’s flirting most because it was not him Jaskier was flirting with. 

He pulled Jaskier closer, pressing their lips together and hoping Jaskier could taste the apology and regret. Jaskier held very still, mouth barely moving in response to Geralt’s, hand frozen at the edges of his armour. 

That wouldn’t do. Geralt wasn’t interested in meek submission. He’d seen Jaskier fired up and passionate so many times. That’s what he wanted; to bask in the heat of all those emotions, the ones he hadn’t felt himself in a very long time. 

_ Perhaps _ , the voice of reason, of Vesemir, said in the back of his head.  _ Perhaps Jaskier wasn’t responding because he didn’t want it. Perhaps it was just the magic that had driven him that far. Perhaps Geralt was about to fuck up the one good thing in his life by trying to take what doesn’t belong to him. _

He fought harder against the rising need in him, and tore his mouth away to suck in desperate gulps of air. Thanks to his mutations, he could force his body to calm, but it would do nothing for the ache in his chest. 

Jaskier made a wounded noise and stared at him. Geralt closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” 

Hot hands, the fingers rough with calluses, touched his face. Gently. Caringly. “Why are you sorry?”

Geralt sighed and looked at his bard again. “The magic. I don’t want it to make you do something you don’t want.”

Jaskier laughed, it sounded bitter and wrong. “Of course I want it. I’ve wanted it from the very first moment I ever saw you. I know it annoys you, so I try not to show it, but… fuck, Geralt. I burn for you all the time.” 

He kissed Jaskier again, silencing words he can’t let himself believe. Jaskier groaned into it while his fingers still worked industriously at Geralt’s clothing. A second pair of hands joined in, tugging and twisting and pulling. Geralt wanted to yell at the lady, to insist she not touch either of them, but he couldn’t with Jaskier’s tongue in his mouth, even if the magic would let him do so. 

Growling was as much as he could accomplish, but instead of scaring anyone off, it made Jaskier crowd in closer, trapping Geralt’s leg between his thighs and rubbing against it. Even through his trousers, Geralt could feel the heat and drag of Jaskier’s cock. Could imagine it dribbling little smears of need against the leather. He wanted to touch it, lick it, lock it away forever so no one else could ever have it. 

Then they were both naked. Geralt wanted to pause a moment to wonder at that, but the feel of Jaskier’s bare skin on his own robbed him of the ability to think straight. He touched everywhere his hands could reach, marveling at the solid press of Jaskier’s collarbones, the flex and dip of his back as he moved, the smoothness on the inside of his thigh sliding up Geralt’s own. 

The world tilted and sun-warmed grass cradled their bodies. The smells overwhelmed him for a moment. A heavy earthiness and the zip of magic. The stupid fucking perfume Jaskier had started wearing since he wintered in Novigrad. Below that, the heady cinnamon scent of Jaskier himself. His skin, his blood, his arousal. No sweat, despite having walked in the sun for hours. 

Geralt groaned and wrapped both arms around Jaskier, unable to keep his own body from shivering uncontrollably. Arousal. Want. Need. He could believe that more than he could the words. Jaskier wanted it. Wanted him. 

He pressed his nose against Jaskier’s hair and skin, inhaling deeply.  _ Home _ . That’s what Jaskier really smelled like. The kind he and his brothers whispered about during dark nights in a cold castle, sure they had once experienced it, before they were given to the school of the wolf. A home where they were loved and cared for. Never cold, never hungry, and always with someone to hold them and keep them safe. 

Jaskier pulled his head up using a fistful of hair. It should have hurt, but it just made him want more. Jaskier kissed his face, his chin, his cheeks, his forehead. Soft little signs of affection that made Geralt smile. He wanted to purr and stretch like a cat, but that would require letting go, and he never wanted to do  _ that _ . 

“Shh,” Jaskier whispered. He stroked Geralt’s hair back and squirmed back so they could look at each other. His pupils were blown wide and his lips already a delightfully used pink. He smiled and nudged Geralt’s nose with his own. “It’s okay, Geralt. I’m here. I’ll always be here. Want you to fuck me. Can you do that?” 

He nodded jerkily, not finding the words to explain how good hearing that made him feel. Perhaps he didn’t need to say it, because Jaskier’s hands were on him, pressing over the thump of his heart. Surely he felt it. 

Jaskier squirmed again, and Geralt reluctantly eased his hold, relaxing back onto the grass as Jaskier lifted up to straddle his hips. Geralt groaned again. He felt like he’d been hard for days, and the drag and catch of Jaskier’s skin against his cock was going to drive him mad. Yet he never wanted it to end. 

“Look at you,” Jaskier mumbled. Like he had any right to make such statements when the sun glinted lovingly off his shoulders and mussed hair. His gaze flicked briefly to the side, and Geralt only remembered they weren’t alone when a much smaller hand lifted one of his. 

He growled and tried to yank away, but her grip was like steel. 

“Learn to accept help when it is given, Witcher.” She poured something warm and wet onto his hand and spread it over his fingers. Geralt turned his head to see it. Some kind of colourless gel that gave off the scent of morning rain. 

_ Oh _ .

Once again he could feel Jaskier’s exasperation even as his bard grabbed the hand and pulled it towards him. “Want me to show you how?” 

Part of him wanted to argue, he did not need instructions, thank you very much. The rest of him knew when to shut the hell up and let something happen. 

Jaskier guided their hands behind him, twisting with the motion so he could watch. Despite its exposure to the air, the gel was wonderfully warm and smooth when it came in contact with Geralt’s cock. He had a brief worry if it was safe to use, but it didn’t burn, didn’t sting, didn’t even dry where it was spread thinnest. 

He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to buck up into the far too slow touch. Jaskier repaid the patience by folding his own fingers around Geralt’s and using it to liberally coat his aching cock. Geralt ground the back of his head into the grass and dug his heels in for good measure. He was going to fly apart if Jaskier was in the mood for teasing. 

Luckily, it seemed he was not. Bottom lip caught between his teeth in concentration, Jaskier gave his cock a few quick pumps with a loose fist, then brought their still entwined fingers up between his arse cheeks, getting the gel practically everywhere except where it needed to go. He let out a little growl of his own that hit Geralt like a punch to the gut. 

“Let me,” Geralt said. “Please?”

Jaskier’s hips gave an abortive little thrust, rubbing the head of his cock against Geralt’s stomach and leaving behind a trail of moisture. Geralt ached to lick it up, but he was not that flexible. Beside, there was work to do.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and wrapped an arm around Jaskier’s waist to help steady him. Their chests pressed together and Jaskier leaned in to nose along his jaw. “Say that again,” he breathed hotly into Geralt’s ear.

“Please?”

Jaskier rewarded him with a hitched breath and a full-body tremble. Geralt ducked his head to nip at the base of his throat, then just pressed his face there and inhaled again.  _ Sunrise. Freshly baked bread. Home. _ He was so fucking gone for his bard. Why had he waited so long? They could have had this years ago. What a grave disservice he had done to both of them. 

Whining, Jaskier circled his hips and fisted his hands in Geralt’s hair, using it to hold his head steady for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. “Anything you want, just do it already.”

Impatient. Geralt couldn’t fault him for it, though, not when he burned with need for it too. 

He dipped his tongue between Jaskier’s parted lips and pressed his finger against Jaskier’s hole. Jaskier opened up for him beautifully, chasing Geralt’s tongue with his own and pushing down so the tip of Geralt’s finger slipped inside. Tight muscle contracted around the digit. 

“More, Geralt. More.”

He complied, pushing in up to the second knuckle. Jaskier’s lips stilled for a moment, and then he surged up, kissing Geralt with what felt like years of pent up desperation. His hands were everywhere, pulling and pushing and holding. 

Geralt gave him another finger, then another, stretching the muscle as gently as he could. Jaskier whined again and reached back to grab Geralt’s wrist and pull until his fingers popped free. 

“Not enough,” he muttered as he took hold of Geralt’s cock and guided it to where he wanted it. 

For a moment that tiny hole resisted, then Jaskier shifted and nudged the tip inside. Geralt threw his head back and gasped. Jaskier’s breath came in hoarse pants. His eyes were canted up to something Geralt couldn’t see, and he glowed like there was a light trying to shine out through his pores. 

“Are you…” Geralt started, but didn’t know what he was even asking. 

Jaskier smiled and closed his eyes. The muscles in his thighs bunched and shifted under Geralt’s hands. He pressed down further, gasped, and kept going until Geralt lost his mind and could only focus on  _ hot  _ and  _ tight _ . 

He set up a fast pace, not allowing his body much time to adjust, using Geralt as a tool to pleasure himself. Geralt, for his part, held on and let Jaskier take what he needed. 

Geralt touched, kissed, licked. Still he couldn’t seem to get enough. Jaskier’s heartbeat drowned out all nearby sounds. His palms burned from the heat of Jaskier’s skin. He had the vaguest of thoughts that perhaps he should be worried about that, but something swelled in him, pushing out all thoughts other than he had to say something or he would explode. 

“Wanted you too,” he breathed against Jaskier’s shoulder. “For so long. Didn’t think you were still interested.” 

Jaskier didn’t say anything, just nudged Geralt’s head back so he could bring their faces in close together. The frantic movement of his hips eased into languid rolls that caused their chests and bellies to rub together, trapping Jaskier’s cock between them. He didn’t seem to mind that either, just kept staring right into Geralt’s eyes from what should have been uncomfortably close. 

“What are you?” Geralt asked. 

“Yours,” Jaskier promised, breathless. “As long as you want me.” 

_ Forever _ . The word numbed his lips to the point where Geralt didn’t know if he actually said it or not. Maybe saying it wasn’t the point, because Jaskier was dropping little kisses on the corner of his mouth where Geralt could feel a smile tugging. The slide and squeeze and press of his body called forth an airy hope that Geralt couldn’t remember ever feeling. Perhaps he had, as a child, before the poison and the pain of the trials. 

Later, after they’d spent themselves and lazily wiped away the evidence, they remained seated on the grass, Jaskier between Geralt’s drawn up thighs with his back against Geralt’s chest, and the wolf amulet a heavy weight where it was draped over his shoulder. 

Geralt hugged his bard to him and kissed his temple. “Stay with me.” 

Jaskier traced patterns on Geralt’s knees and laughed. “Where would I go?”

“No, I meant this winter. Come with me to Kaer Morhen.” 

Silence greeted his words, lasting so long that Geralt feared the worst. Then Jaskier turned his shoulder and neck to glance at him. “Are you sure? You’re not going to just abandon me to my own like always?”

Geralt shook his head and tightened his hold. “My brothers are the absolute worst, but I want you to meet them.” 

Jaskier’s smile was blinding as the sun. Geralt felt instant shame at how badly he had treated him up to that point. They had time now, he could spend it making up for the past. 

“Alright,” he agreed and faced forward again. “I had planned to go to Oxenfurt and teach a class. They will surely perish without the sweet salvation of my musical prowess, but fuck it.”

He wanted to roll his eyes at the cocky little bastard, but Geralt was too relaxed to make the effort. All he wanted was to languish in the grass with his bard, until the warm afternoon sun shed its last light and they were forced to cover up against the creeping night. 

A faint melody caught his ears. At first, he thought it was Jaskier having somehow found a way to drag his lute closer, but the music seemed less like it came from an instrument and more like a thousand voices. Female voices, at that. 

Oh. Fuck. He’d all but forgotten about her. 

He craned his head to peer over his shoulder. A little distance away the fae woman stood in what had been a grass field when they’d arrived. Shrubbery reached as high as her knee, though there was not a single flower he could see. Had it not worked? Did that mean Jaskier didn’t love him after all? 

“Hey,” Jaskier said, smacking his shoulder playfully. “I can hear the cogs in your head turning. Whatever you are thinking about, stop it.”

Geralt grunted, but didn’t take his eyes off the woman. She was singing, somehow producing the choir sound with a single set of vocal cords. Her hands churned the air around her, raining down more of the sparkling blue dust. She swayed, and all the bushes moved gently with her. 

He must have made a sound, for she looked up, meeting his gaze. There was a roundness to her face that hadn’t been there before, like she’d had many a filling meal while they were busy. A cold nugget of worry took hold behind Geralt’s breastbone. Had she fed off them? Taken their life force, as a succubus might?

She smiled and walked towards them, her long dress trailing behind. The plants moved aside to let her pass. She placed a hand on his brow and the other on the back of his head, he could hear his mother’s laughter. A sound he hadn’t even known he knew. 

“Easy, child of winter,” she whispered. “You’ve done well; there will be a mighty harvest come next Litha. But you, you are a lucky one; you get to taste the fruit of summer now.” 

Jaskier mumbled something and turned onto one hip. His shoulder slotted in underneath Geralt’s and his cheek rested on Geralt’s chest. He sighed with contentment in his sleep. 

When Geralt looked up, she was gone. Roach nickered from further afield and resumed her grazing on the sweet grasses. She had been completely unsaddled and his gear stacked up in a neat little pile nearby. Her coat gleamed like she’d been brushed recently. 

Next to his meagre belongings, a single blue flower lay on the grass. He wasn’t sure if she'd forgotten it, or if it had been left as a gift. Yennefer would not be pleased with such a minuscule offering, but that was a worry for another day. 

Geralt got hold of his shirt with his toes, and managed to pull it close enough to grab. Jaskier didn’t even stir from the jostling. 

He covered them as best he could and lowered his head to take in the smell of Jaskier’s hair. They would have to talk about what happened. He would much prefer not to, to just continue exploring what was happening between them. In silence. He didn’t think Jaskier would let him get away with it, though. There would be no more running. No more pretending he didn’t feel the way he felt. 

Perhaps he was tired of running anyway. Perhaps it was time he allowed himself to be caught.

**Author's Note:**

> [Have you checked out the art? If not, go immediately.](https://cinnamonrollbakery.tumblr.com/post/621551323407646721/fic-link-the-fruit-of-summer-fic-author) ;)
> 
> I am also on [Tumblr](https://morcalivan.tumblr.com/) if you want to come say hi.


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